


Cabin Fever

by KatsatheGraceling



Series: Long Bondlock Prompt Fills [6]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom, bondlock - Fandom
Genre: Crack, Just a little bit crazy, M/M, Q blows things up, Q does not put up with your shit, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 17:45:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2237874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatsatheGraceling/pseuds/KatsatheGraceling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Hey! So I jus found these and they are so. good. And I have a prompt for you!</p><p>Bond and Q, in a secluded cabin, no internet access or whatever (something that prevents Q from his normal technological access), 1 week (or however long you prefer).</p><p>You're awesome, so keep writing!</p><p>- Mutilatedhyperbole</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cabin Fever

****

  
Define: Withdrawal  
with·draw·al  
 _noun_

The period an addict goes through following abrupt termination in the use of a substance or item, usually characterised by feelings of discomfort, distress, and intense craving for said substance/item. While withdrawal is usually associated with the termination of drug use, it can also be linked to the detachment of a person and an item or action they are addicted to, such as a childhood toy or gambling.

Withdrawal symptoms include (but are not limited to) mood swings, anxiety and irritability, sudden tiredness, depressive episodes, little enthusiasm, and the inability to concentrate for long periods of time. The stages of withdrawal are closely linked to those of the Kübler-Ross model (i.e. Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and Acceptance), but often have a more harmful effect on the body, especially when there is a drug involved.

* * *

“Q’s been compromised.”

Bond blinked at the mobile in his hand, now fully awake. He had been alone in his flat - Alec was out on a mission in Japan - and was finally able to catch up on some much deserved sleep.

He glanced at the time. _Christ, three in the morning?_

“What happened?” Bond gruffed.

R spoke from the other side of the line, “Someone broke into Q’s flat about half an hour ago.”

“Is he alright?”

“A bit worse for wear, I’ll say, but not too bad. Gave him quite a scare, though.”

Bond rubbed his eyes and flicked on the light. “Who was it, then?”

“Can’t say. They came in through his front door, a group of five. Three of them were put out of commission by his security system, but the other two roughed him up a bit before help could arrive. We have his attackers in custody, but can’t identify them.”

Bond rose from his bed and hastily dressed in the dark. “What did they want?”

“I think they meant to kidnap him, but weren’t counting on him putting up such a fight. Q held his own long enough for back up to reach him.” Bond smiled. Good Q.

“Where are you now?”

“We’re still at his flat, but 007?”

“What?” Bond gruffed, grabbing his keys and shuffling to the door.

“M wants him away for a while until we figure out who did this.”

“Well, where’s he going to go?”

There was a beat of silence, before R awkwardly said, “Erm, M wants a word.”

Bond heard the phone being passed over, and M’s voice came on, “Bond, get here as quickly as you can. I’m assigning you to Q’s protection detail.”

Bond growled, “I’m no babysitter.”

“That’s an order, 007.”

Scowling, Bond said, “Yes ma’am,” and hung up. He wished he had time to brew himself a pot of coffee.

* * *

Q sat on his sofa, letting the cup of tea thaw his frosty hands. MI6 personnel were sweeping his flat, searching for any more information they could find about his attackers.

M gracefully sat down next to him, and rested her hand on his shoulder. “007 is on his way,” she said.

Q grimaced, “I don’t need a babysitter.”

M smiled, “I’ve been assured that he isn’t one. He’s only coming to ensure your safety. I’m going to ask that he accompanies you while you take a break."

Q’s eyes snapped to her. “Break?” he asked. “Are you firing me?”

“No, Q.”

“Then I don’t need a break. I’ll be fine by morning.”

M took one glance at the large bags under his eyes and solidified her decision. “Q,” she said, gentle but stern, “we don’t know who those men were or what they wanted. I don’t want you coming back to work until we can guarantee that you’re safe.”

“MI6 is a secure facility. Why can’t I just live there?”

M cleared her throat. “I… have been given orders to put you on paid leave. You are not allowed access to Q-Branch or MI6 servers until we find whoever issued your attack.”

“Orders? Who ca- _oh!_ ” Q’s eyes blazed. “I’m going to kill him,” he hissed. He reached for his phone, but M’s hand on his stopped him.

M, who knew exactly how overbearing Q’s politician of a brother could be, smiled. “Q, he’s only trying to look out for you.”

“He’s a pompous git. This is none of his business. He cannot do this.”

“Can't do what?” Bond spoke from the doorway.

Q turned to face him, his face annoyed, “I’ve been grounded.”

Bond chuckled. "By whom?"

Q scowled, "An interfering arse."

“I’ve been told I’m supposed to take you to a safe house,” Bond said, and Q grimaced.

"That's really not necessar-"

"Yes, it is, Q. I need you safe." M's voice was stern. 

"But-"

"Q," M said, levelling him with a gaze not unlike one a mother would use to scold her child.

Q's face flushed. "Yes, ma'am." M nodded approvingly. 

Tanner leaned his head in through the doorway. “Ma’am,” he started, but paused when he noticed Q.

M gently patted Q’s hand. “Q, sweetheart, be a dear and get me a cup of tea, would you?”

Q opened his mouth to protest, before snapping it shut with a huff. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and stalked to the kitchen, muttering under his breath.

“What is it?” M demanded.

“We’ve identified the person who issued the attack on Q. A…” Tanner glanced at his phone, “Raoul Silva.”

Only years of experience in the field allowed Bond to see the subtle tightening of M’s shoulders, and the flash of recognition in her eyes before she masked it.

Tanner continued, oblivious, “We’re tracking his location at the moment.”

“Right, then,” M nodded. She felt Bond’s eyes scrutinising her, and sighed. “007, with me.”

She rose, and Bond followed her down the hall leading to Q’s bedroom. She paused right outside of the door and turned to Bond.

“Sod the safe house,” she hissed with a fierceness that surprised Bond. “Take him away. Far away.”

“What’s this about, M?”

“Raoul Silva.” She took a breath, “His real name is Tiago Rodriguez. He was a brilliant agent, a while back. But he started operating beyond his brief, hacking the Chinese.” Bond saw M steel herself. “The handover was coming up and they were onto him, so I gave him up. I got six agents in return and a peaceful transition.” 

Bond grimaced. An agent with a vendetta. _Excellent._

She met Bond’s eyes, “I do not regret my decision, 007.”

“But why’s he after Q?”

M paused. “I can’t say for sure. But Silva is extremely competent with computers. I don’t doubt Q’s abilities, but you need to deny him all access to the internet. All computers in general. I don’t want him to risk giving away your location.“

“He’s not going to be happy about this,” Bond stated bluntly.

“I’m aware. But that’ll be your job to deal with him, won’t it?” She flashed him an award-winning smile, and Bond snorted. “Take off with him as soon as you can. 006 will be retracted from his current mission so he can track down Silva. I’ll have someone pack Q’s suitcase.”

“Isn’t he old enough to pack his own?”

M smiled wryly. “Do you really trust Q to not bring his electronics?”

“Fair point,” Bond conceded, and moved to walk back to the living room.

“Oh, and Bond,” M called. Bond turned. “You should probably frisk Q before you leave, as well. Just to be sure.”

Bond scowled, and M laughed as she slid into Q’s bedroom.

* * *

****

Stage One. 

Also known as the Withdrawal Stage, this stage can last up to 15 days and may be accompanied by pain, anxiety, and lethargy. This stage mimics the Denial stage of the Five Stages of Grief. Over time, the body and mind have become dependant on the substance/item, and the sudden cessation of using it gives a shock to the addict’s body. The addict might deny that they are addicted, but will continue (knowingly or not) to seek out means of getting more.

* * *

“Where are we going?” Q asked. He was bundled up in his parka, sitting in the passenger seat of a company car. His fingers were tapping restlessly on the dashboard.

Bond elected to ignore his question, and Q huffed. 

He pulled the car into a dark alley. Bond frowned, “Is it just me or are the CCTV cameras following us?”

Q glanced out the window and subtly flipped one the bird. “It’s just you.”

“Hm,” Bond wasn’t so sure.

“The-” Q began, but was cut off by the sound of a phone ringing. Bond’s eyes narrowed. “Shit.”

“Q,” Bond scolded, stopping outside a storage unit.

“It’s just a mobile!” Q complained, ignoring the ringing. It was probably just Mycroft gloating about how Q needed to be babysat. “It’s not like I’m going to start World War III!”

Both Bond and Q got out, and Bond held out his hand for the phone. Q clutched it to his chest, pouting. “Give it up, Q.”

“No.”

“It’s like you’re addicted to that thing, I swear.”

“I am not,” Q sniffed.

“How’d you even sneak that past me, anyway?”

“I was taught how to pickpocket at a very young a- hey!” While Q was distracted, Bond swooped forward and plucked the small device out of his hand. 

“Don-” Q protested, but Bond reared back and threw it at the brick wall. Q let out a shriek. “007! I-”

“Save it,” Bond said, and unlocked the storage unit.

Q huffed. “I'm not hiding in there, if that's your brilliant plan.”

“We're changing vehicles.” Bond explained. “Trouble with company cars is they have trackers.” He heaved the door open.

“I could easily t-”

“No.” Bond flicked on the lights, his eyes hungrily taking in his baby.

Q saw the silver Aston Martin and rolled his eyes. “Oh, and I suppose that's completely inconspicuous.”

Bond stared at him for a second, before shaking his head. “Get in.”

Q’s eyes narrowed and he sulkily got into the car. Bond pulled out and began to drive. He knew exactly where he was going to take Q.

They sat for a few minutes in silence, before Q shifted around awkwardly. “It's not very comfortable, is it?”

Bond’s hand reached down and flicked open the compartment to the ejecti button in the gear shift. His thumb hovered threateningly above it. “Are you gonna complain the whole way?”

Q gave him a scathing glance, “Oh, go on then, eject me. See if I care.”

Bond smirked at the younger man’s tone, and pushed the cap back down.

Q scrutinised where the button was seamlessly hidden. “Boothroyd fixed this up for you, didn’t he?”

“Yes. He weaponised it and guaranteed that the engine would run perfectly.”

Q hummed in agreement. “I’d love to take a look when we get to the safehouse.” Reminded by his own words, Q’s head suddenly shot up. He glanced out the window. “Wait, where are we going? The safehouse was two exits ago.”

“We’re not going to the safe house,” Bond could nearly feel Q’s confusion.

“Then… where?”

“Back in time,” Bond said. “Somewhere you’ll be safe.”

They drove in relative silence for most of the drive, stopping only to refuel. Q was more quiet than Bond had expected, lost in his own thoughts.

“Do you have your mobile on you?” Q asked.

“No,” Bond answered. “M wanted us completely untraceable.” Q frowned.

They stopped soon after, Bond gazing out upon the moors. Q followed him, and the pair stood in silence for a few minutes before Q asked, “Is this where you grew up?”

“Mm.”

Q let out a breath. _'Small talk,'_ his brain supplied. _'Make small talk.'_

“How old were you when they died?” he blurted, and then immediately wanted to smack himself.

“You know the answer to that.” Bond said calmly. He didn't seem offended, thankfully. “You probably know the whole story. It’s all in my file, you know.”

“I know,” Q agreed. “But I didn’t look.” He ignored Bond’s surprised glance. “An agent’s history before MI6 is their own. I only know what M has told me.”

Bond nodded, feeling oddly grateful.

Q spoke quietly, hoping to not cross a line. “Orphans always make the best recruits.”

Bond stiffened slightly, before letting his breath out with a huff. “Less people to miss them.” He turned slightly to Q. “What about you, then? Anyone waiting for you at home?”

“No one but a temperamental cat,” he smiled sadly. “Our parents died in a plane crash when I was nine.”

“Our?”

Q started, realising his mistake. He coloured. “Ah, yes. My brothers and I.”

Bond smiled, “Will I get to meet them?”

“Christ, I hope not. They’re not…” he trailed off, searching for the right words. “I’m the least socially inept in the family - let’s put it that way.”

Bond laughed, a carefree laugh that he hadn’t felt in a long while. The familiar smell of rain filled his lungs, and he glanced skyward. “Storm's coming,” he stated, and they returned to the car.

They eventually pulled into the driveway of an old manor. Q’s eyes widened at the sight. “Damn.”

“Mm-hmm,” Bond agreed. “Welcome to Skyfall Lodge.”

“It’s bloody huge.” Q stated, and grabbed his suitcase. He hesitated only for a moment, before saying, “My family lived in a small cottage in Sussex. Cramped little place - not nearly enough room to grow.”

Bond was quiet, letting Q reminisce. He led Q inside.

“My brothers and I had to share a room. It led to numerous arguments and a quite a few punches being thrown.” Q smiled at Bond as he opened the door. “It’s how I got my defence training.”

“Are they geniuses like you?” Bond asked sarcastically.

Q paused, and gave Bond a sheepish smile.

“Oh, god. They are, aren’t they?”

“Perhaps.” Q admitted. They walked inside.

Bond shook his head. “It’s a w-”

The sound of floorboards creaking made both Q and Bond stiffen. Bond had his gun cocked and aimed before either man could blink.

Instead, Bond was met with one face he’d thought he would never see again.

“James,” the older man marvelled, ”James Bond.”

“Good god,” Bond said, tucking the gun into the back of his trousers. “Are you still alive?”

Kincade chuckled, “It's nice to see you, too.” He lowered his shotgun.

Bond turned to his charge. “Q, this is Kincade,” he introduced. “Gamekeeper here since I was a boy.”

Kincade smiled. “Pleased to meet you… er, Q, was it?”

“Yes. Hello, Mr. Kincade,” Q greeted.

“Bit of an odd name.” There was an awkward beat, before Kincade asked Bond, “What are you doing here?”

Q opened his mouth to respond, but Bond spoke before he could. “Ah, we were just looking to get away from it all.” He strode to a bewildered Q, and wrapped a strong arm around the younger boy’s waist. “Isn’t that right, honey?”

"Erm, right," Q squeaked out.

Kincade smiled, the skin around his eyes folding into wise wrinkles. "I see." He looked Q up and down, "You always did go for the pretty ones, didn't you, James?"

A blush spread over Q's cheeks, and Bond laughed. “Yes, sir.”

“Well,” Kincade said, “I’ll let you two get on with it.” He began to gather his things.

“Oh, no, there’s really no need for-” Q started, embarrassed.

“Aw, nonsense.” Kincade winked. “Noises travel through this house too well for me to stay. I’d better be off.” With one last smile, he exited.

Q immediately turned and smacked Bond in the chest. “Was that necessary?” he hissed.

“What?” Bond asked innocently. “It’ll keep him out of the house for a while. Which is probably the best thing, considering the circumstances.”

Q huffed. “I suppose. Where’s he going?”

“He and his wife have a small cottage a ways back on the family property.”

“Oh,” Q sighed. He glanced around timidly and took in the scenery. He smiled at Bond. “It's a beautiful old house.”

“She’s alright,” Bond conceded. He didn’t understand the appeal of living in such a large, inhospitable place. Then again, Q didn’t actually grow up here. “But, she does have some perks. Let me show you this.” He led Q over to a small section of the wall in the dining room, unlatching a hidden panel.

“Priest's hole?” Q asked. He ducked down to get a better look. 

“Yeah, from Reformation times.” Bond answered. “The tunnel leads under the moor. If you get in danger, this is the place to come.”

“Right, got it.”

Bond paused, hesitating for only a second. He figured if Q shared some personal things, then so could he. He said softly, “The night Kincade told me my parents had died, I hid in here for two days.”

Q sucked in a breath, but thankfully didn’t give Bond the dreadful look of _pity._ “Christ,” he whispered.

“Don’t worry. That was a long time ago.”

They stood there for a few beats, before Bond broke the silence. “Eh. Must get on. It’s getting late. Let me take you to your room. I’ll show you around the house tomorrow.”

Q hummed. “I don’t sleep much,” he mused. Suddenly seeming to remember his manners, he coloured and muttered. “But thank you.”

Bond chuckled and led Q upstairs to one of the guest bedrooms. “Just, uh... make yourself at home, I suppose,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

He ran to his parent’s old bedroom, ignoring the crippling feeling of nostalgia that tried to grab at him. Bond ducked into the closet, and brought out a worn blanket and his father’s oversized knitted jumper. He shook them out twice to remove the dust, and walked back to Q’s makeshift bedroom.

“I brought you some things,” Bond said, somewhat awkwardly. He offered the items. “The nights get cold here.”

“Thank you, 007,” Q smiled.

“Bathroom’s through that door over there. I’ll be across the hall if you need me.”

"Alright," Q said softly.

Bond stood, feeling slightly awkward as Q walked over to the bed and pulled off the dust sheet. The younger boy tested the mattress’ softness with his hands. 

Bond cleared his throat,"Goodnight, Q.”

“Night, Bond. Thank you,” he said, “for everything.”

Bond simply nodded in return, and retreated to his old bedroom. He cleaned his Walther once before setting it onto the bedside table. Deciding he should probably get some rest, Bond slid under the covers and closed his eyes, falling into a fitful sleep.

* * *

The sound of a floorboard creaking and the feeling of hot breath on Bond’s face woke him up, his eyes snapping open and mind racing. He immediately reached for the gun on the bedside table, but it had been moved away.

“Oh, good,” a cheerful voice said. “You’re awake.”

Bond instantly relaxed at the sound of his Quartermaster’s voice, and huffed out a breath. His eyes finally adjusted and he was able to make out Q’s lithe form in the darkness, standing over Bond’s bed.

“I do hope I’m not disturbing you,” Q continued innocently, “but I need a computer.”

* * *

****

Stage Two.

The Acknowledgment Stage begins when the addict understands that they _do_ have an addiction. They are often irritable and resentful, especially if they are not going through withdrawal willingly. The addict begins to comprehend that the separation from the substance/item will not be short-term, and is willing to make threats and sometimes use violence to get what they want. Compare to the Anger Stage of Kübler-Ross model.

* * *

“What the bloody _hell_ do you think you’re doing?” Bond asked Q, who was still hovering over him.

"You said to come to you if I need anything," he explained patiently. "I need something."

Bond groaned, rolling over on his stomach and shoving his face into his pillow. His voice was muffled, "Go away."

“That’s no way to treat a guest, 007,” Q chastised.

“Piss off.”

Q was silent for a moment, as if pondering what to do next. He finally decided on poking Bond’s side. Incessantly.

Bond rolled over and gave Q a murderous glare. “Go back to sleep,”

“Technically, one cannot go back to a state one was never in in the first place.”

”I’ll shoot you. M or no M.”

“You can’t,” Q said simply. “I programmed your gun. It’s designed to not fire at me.”

Bond stared at Q for a second, before he noticed a faint twitch in the younger man’s brow. “You’re lying,” Bond stated.

Q shrugged, unperturbed, “So I am. But it’s a good idea. I need to start blueprints for that...” He suddenly turned contemplative.

“Good job. Now go sleep on it.”

“Ah. No. I already told you I don’t sleep much. I might sleep tomorrow night.”

“So what do you need a computer for?”

Q blinked. “I’m bored.”

Bond moaned, “You woke me up to tell me you’re _bored._ ”

“No, I woke you up to tell you that I need a computer,” Q pointed out logically. “ _You’re_ the one wasting our time by this pointless conversing.”

“Bloody hell,” Bond muttered. He turned on his side, away from Q, and threw his arm over his eyes. It was too early for this shit.

“Hey,” Q protested, “I still need that computer. A laptop will do, if I must.”

“Tough,” Bond muttered. “You’re not getting either.”

“Why not?”

“Grounded, remember?”

Q huffed, “No, I’m grounded from MI6 servers. Which I won’t go in.” Bond peeked out from under his arm to give Q a dubious look, and Q amended, “Much.”

“The answer is no, Q.”

“Do you not trust me?!” Q exploded, suddenly furious. “Am I not competent enough to avoid getting caught?”

“That’s not it at all, Q, and you know it. M wants you completely safe. You’re one of the most valuable assets that we have,” Bond explained calmly. “Besides, even if I said yes, we don’t have a computer.”

Q heaved out a breath, and crossed his arms over his chest. His lips formed a pout. “You’re no fun.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Bond sighed. “You stay quiet for the rest of the night - sleep or no sleep - and I’ll let you see the gun room. You can even fire a few.”

Q’s eyes lit up.

“But,” Bond said quickly, “ _only_ if you let me sleep. And don’t try to go in there yourself. I’ll know. Deal?”

Q nodded, excited. “Yes, deal. I’ll leave you alone now.” He rushed out of the room, and Bond chuckled into the empty air.

* * *

Bond woke up, this time without a face two inches from his own, and stretched silently on the bed. He glanced at the alarm clock. 6:30. Finally, a reasonable time to wake up.

He frowned as the sound of a soft curse travelled from downstairs. Bond rose, following the mutterings until he stopped just in the doorway of the dining room.

He peered in, only to stop short at the sight in front of him. A choked off noise sprung from his throat.

“Oh,” Q said from his place on the floor. He looked like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, surrounded by what Bond guessed were little bits of a mutilated toaster. “Good morning.”

“What did you do to the toaster?” Bond asked. Q opened his mouth, but Bond shook his head. “Actually, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I _do,_ however, want to know what the toaster ever did to you.”

Q flushed, “It flipped my toast onto the floor. The spring’s faulty.”

Bond pointedly looked at the small spring resting on the floor directly in front of Q. “It seems like you found the spring thirty minutes ago. Now are you just getting your revenge?”

“Ten,” Q corrected. “And perhaps.”

Bond only shook his head, choosing not to get into it. "I'm making pancakes. Want some?"

"How very domestic," Q teased.

Bond glared, "So you want some or not?"

"Yes, please, oh mighty cooking wizard."

Bond glanced down at the tortured shambles of his toaster, and a sly smile spread over his face. "You don't get any until my toaster is put back the way you found it. Faulty spring and all. Having your toast fly at you will give you better reflexes."

“But-”

“Fair is fair,” Bond shrugged.

Q pouted, and grudgingly began to put all the parts in some sense of order.

Bond smiled, and made his way to the kitchen. Q glared at the small pieces, and then glanced over his shoulder. Bond was in front of the stove, thankfully not paying attention to what Q was doing. 

Q slipped the tiny spring into his pocket, whispering, “May all your toast burn.”

* * *

Just as Bond was setting the plates onto the table, Q strolled back in, cradling the - now whole - toaster in his arms.

“Ah, thank you,” Bond said, smiling.

Q gave him a scathing glance and set the toaster down. “There. Fixed.”

“Good. Have a seat.” Bond pulled a chair out for Q, who blushed at the attention and sat down.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Bond sat across from him. “So, I figured after we’re done here, you can go ahead and get dressed so we can go outside for some shooting practice.” 

Q glanced down at his attire, realising he was still wearing the old jumper that Bond had handed him last night and flannel bottoms. Whoops.

Bond continued, “We’ll test your aim. Just remind me to stay directly behind you when we shoot.”

“My aim is impeccable,” Q protested, but Bond only snorted and shook his head. “I’m the one who designs your guns, 007, don’t you think I’d know how to shoot one properly?”

“Drop the formalities,” Bond complained. “Here I’m either Bond or just James. And I highly doubt your marksmanship is as good as mine.”

“Well then, _just James,_ I guess you wouldn’t mind making a little bet.”

Bon- _James_ leaned forward over the table, eyes narrowing. “You’re on.”

Q leaned back in his chair, his lips twitching. “The usual wager, then?”

James nodded, “Of course.”

“Alright.” Q extended his hand, which James grasped firmly in his own.

“I look forward to it.”

* * *

James and Q stood outside, both dressed, and each carrying a hunting rifle.

They had chosen to set old teacups on the branch of a barren tree, two for each of them. Q had brought extra, of course, just in case, and ensured that they were firing _away_ from the house. 

James made sure they were at least a good ninety yards away before he turned back to the tree. “Do you want to start?” he asked.

Q shrugged, the rifle bobbing precariously in his hand. “You can go ahead.”

James raised the rifle and took aim, his finger twitching over the trigger. He leaned his head further into the butt of the gun, revelling in the feel of the smooth wood there. Oh, he had missed this; the calming effect of cradling a beautiful (deadly) work of art against h-

“Ahem.” Q interrupted. James’ eyes snapped open. “Any longer, and I’ll think you’re scared.”

“Of a twit like you?” James laughed. “Not a chance.” Calmy and surely, he fired. The two teacups shattered with an impressive crash, and the pieces of broken china fell to the ground.

“Well done,” Q admitted.

“Thank you. You can take a few steps forward for your turn, you know. You’ll probably need it.”

Q only snorted, and raised his own gun. He glanced around. Breathed in. 

The numbers and graphs flooded his head.

_’Environmental factors that may affect accuracy include: model of gun (Anderson Wheeler 500 Nitro Express Double Rifle), weight of bullets (average for model), temperature (including temperature of barrel, ammunition, and shooter), wind conditions (slight 3 mph wind heading east), humidity (high), light (fair), elevation and atmospheric pres-’_

“Any longer and I’ll think you’re _scared,_ ” James mocked, and Q glared at him over the butt of the rifle.

“Bite me,” the younger boy muttered. 

James eyed Q nervously, desperately hoping the kid wouldn’t end up knocking himself out with the kickback. “Now, remember, don't let it pull to the left,” he warned.

Q paused awkwardly, “I'll do my best.”

He took a deep breath and fired two shots. The remaining two teacups seemed to explode, and the small pieces of ceramic landed in the dirt.

There was a pause, before James said, “I think you went into the wrong field, Q.”

Q chuckled. “Gods, no. My specialty is technology. Technically a gun is just another piece of tech. Besides, my hand-to-hand combat is atrocious.”

They both began to walk back to the tree. “R said that you fended off your attackers well enough to give the response team time to get you.”

Q shrugged, “To be fair, they weren’t expecting a fight at all. I know enough from various forms of martial arts to be able to hold my own against my brothers, for a while at least. But against an actual agent who was expecting it, I would be hopelessly outmatched.”

“That’s not quite true. Your hand-to-hand not might be spectacular, but I wish our agents had half your ingenuity.” They finally got to the tree, and James whistled, seeing the teacups’ remains on the ground. “And your aim. I’m impressed.”

“Thanks. Does this mean I win?”

James laughed, “You wish. We both hit two for two. That doesn’t make you better.”

Q grinned evilly. “I believe the exact terms of the bet were, _‘I highly doubt your marksmanship is as good as mine.’_ And it is. So I win.”

James glared. “Hitting two cups does _not_ make you as good as me.”

Q raised his chin. “How many teacups are you willing to sacrifice?”

“As many as it takes.” He reached down and lifted a few plates. “A moving target is much harder to hit.”

“Just admit defeat,” Q said.

James ignored him, instead holding a plate out like a frisbee. “Ready?”

Q sighed, and chambered two more bullets. “Go ahead.”

James threw the plates up into the air, and Q quickly cocked the gun and shot them down.

“I’m even better with a handgun, if you want to test that as well,” Q teased. “Or maybe if you have a bow? Perhaps a harpoon?”

“My turn,” James grumbled, and handed Q two more plates. “Toss them.”

Q threw them both up, and James swiftly hit them both. “Congratulations. Now can we just agree on the fact that I won?”

“One more time,” he muttered. 

They switched, and James tossed up two ceramic bowls. Q sighed, and shot at them both.

“Hah!” James exclaimed when Q only hit one. “I win.”

Q shook his head. “Not so fast. You have to attempt the same number as me. You have two to go.”

James sighed, and reloaded. “Alright. Go ahead.”

Q threw the first one up in the air, waiting for James to take aim, and then chucked one directly at James, catching him in the shoulder.

“Ouch! What the fuck?”

Q looked at him innocently, “Oh, look at that. We’re even.”

“You little shit. That’s cheating.”

“I disagree.”

“By cheating, you forfeit. I win.”

“What? No. I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

“Unspoken rule. I win. I’ll collect later.”

“You- ugh!” Q glared, and scooped up another plate. He held it up threateningly.

“Q,” James warned. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Jutting his jaw out, Q hurled the plate at James, who dodged it. “Arse!” Q yelled, and began to throw more.

“Jesus,” James huffed, and winced when one caught his ankle. “You’ve got a temper on you, haven’t you?”

Q reached down to grab more ammunition, only to realise that he had used them all. “Shit.”

James took a step towards Q, who looked at him nervously before bolting towards the house.

“Q!” James shouted, and took off after him.

James was quick, of course, but Q’s small frame gave him an advantage. Q reached the house first, and ran inside. 

Q looked around wildly, searching for a place to go. _Shitshitshit._ James was going to kill him.

He started to sprint towards the stairs, but a strong hand gripped the back of his shirt and _yanked!_

Q let out a meep, and went still. James chuckled. “You remind me of a cat. Tell me, do you purr?”

Q let out a curse which sounded suspiciously like a hiss.

“Relax, Q. I’m not mad.”

“Liar.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” James said. “I won’t be mad if you admit that you lost.”

Q glared at the ground, and finally muttered, “Fine. I…” he paused, as if he couldn’t bring himself to say it. 

“I was right, Q,” James tried. “At least admit that.”

“You were right,” he admitted. “I was… less right.”

James snorted. “Good enough. Why don’t you go upstairs? Lunch will be ready in about an hour.”

“Okay. And about that computer...”

James gave Q a look. “No, Q. You know the rules. There’s a library down the hall, you’re welcome to it.”

Q sighed, and made his way to where James pointed. “Next thing you know, I’ll end up getting a paper cut,” he muttered. “Who even needs technology? Not me, that’s who.”

He entered the library, eyes widening at the abundance of books. He settled down in a loveseat with a battered copy of _Grimm’s Fairy Tales,_ and began to read.

About an hour later, he had just gotten to the story of Hansel and Gretel, when James’ voice boomed throughout the house, “Q, why the fuck isn’t the toaster giving me back my toast?”

* * *

****

Stage Three.

The Honeymoon Stage is a period that is nearly the the opposite of Stages One and Two. The Honeymoon Stage is often accompanied by feelings of energy, optimism, and confidence. This stage loosely relates to the Bargaining Stage of the Kübler-Ross model, as some addicts believe that if they are positive enough, they will be rewarded with a slight reprieve. During this stage, many pick up an extra hobby to distract themselves. Addicts can sometimes will the symptoms of withdrawal away by ignoring them, but doing so will often cause a larger crash in the next stage.

* * *

Q was a little terror.

What James would later dub as _‘The Great Prank Wars of Skyfall Lodge’_ began with Q messing with the wiring of the toaster (again).

After James had found out that Q was the one that made his toast burn to a crisp - because he had hidden the _god damned spring_ \- James retaliated by simply ruffling Q’s hair.

Apparently that was a big mistake.

Q had struck first, starting with - once again - the poor toaster. James had made Q put the spring back (under James’ supervision, of course), but somehow he still had the time to meddle with the wiring without James noticing.

The little minx had tampered with it in such a way that when James pushed down the lever, it sent an electrical shock through his hand and up his arm.

“Fuck!” James yelped. The shock ended as soon as it began, thankfully, but that made it no less painful. “Q!” he roared, holding his throbbing hand to his chest.

Upstairs, where a certain Quartermaster was lying in his bed in the guest bedroom, a little _meep!_ could be heard as Q hid himself under the blankets. He heard the stomping of James’ boots as the older man hurried up the stairs.

_‘Shit,’_ Q thought, _‘I’ve done it now.’_

James threw open the door, and glared at the small mound on the bed. “Q,” he said, his voice a deadly calm. “Why did my toaster just attack me?”

He waited for a few moments, before Q’s head finally poked out of the blankets. He only came out far enough to reveal his mop of hair and eyes, the rest of him tucked safely away in his small fort. “I don’t know?” Q tried, voice muffled.

James’ eyes narrowed, and Q huddled tighter. “Q?”

“You… you messed with my hair,” Q explained.

James blinked. “You rigged my toaster to electrocute me because I _messed with your hair?_ ”

Q nodded, nervously, and James hummed. “Alright, then. If that’s how you want to play it.” He looked Q dead in the eye. “Game on.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode out of his room.

* * *

Q was on edge for the rest of the day, constantly looking for James over his shoulder. He glanced at the blond every few minutes, making sure the man was still where he had last seen him ~~(and not plotting Q’s death or anything)~~.

James smirked to himself as he watched Q squirm. He was purposefully acting as if nothing had happened, simply letting Q fret over it. James knew from experience that suspense could be a torture all on its own.

Luckily for James - and consequently unluckily for Q - James paid attention. He noticed the little things that others dismissed, and had learned quite a few things about his young Quartermaster.

And most importantly, he knew that Q was absolute _shit_ in the mornings. Every time Q was dragged into HQ in the middle of the night, or woken up by James asking for help, the brunet was nearly unresponsive until he had had at least one or two (read: five or more) cups of his Earl Grey. He was still damn good at his job, but lacked any knowledge that didn’t have to do with his fingertips and a keyboard until a minimum of thirty minutes had passed. _If_ it was a good day.

So it was with that fact in mind that James simply waited Q out, enjoying watching the younger man’s uneasiness.

After Q fell asleep that night, James snuck into the kitchen and grabbed the roll of cling film. He shook his head as he crept back into the upstairs bathroom. This was a prank he hadn’t pulled since uni (and maybe once a few years back, but Alec deserved that and there were no hard feelings).

Oh well. If Q was going to act like a child, James would treat him like one. He knelt down and lifted the seat, wrapping a layer of the wrap over the bowl, positioning it in such a way that it was nearly invisible.

There. Now all he had to do was wait until morning.

* * *

“Oh, buggering _fuck!_ ”

James woke up, one hand immediately scooping up his gun. “Q?!” he shouted.

“James, you complete arsehole! What the _hell_ did you do to the bloody toilet?”

James froze, and then had to hold a hand over his mouth to smother his laughter. “What’s the matter with it?” he asked innocently.

“The fu- is this _cling film?_ ” he called. “James, this isn’t funny. I’m getting piss everywhere!”

James got out of bed, tucking his Walther into the back of his pyjama bottoms. He walked to the bathroom, standing outside the closed door. “I thought we established yesterday that your aim was better than that?”

“I’m going to get you for this, James,” Q promised darkly.

James chuckled. “And _I’m_ going to get _you_ a mop.”

“You’re not seriously going to make me clean this up, are you?”

James ignored him, instead jogging down to the kitchen to get the mop.

“James? _James?!_ ”  
Q sat, spoon submerged in his oatmeal, glaring daggers at the blond man across from him.

“If you stay like that for too long, your face will get stuck that way.”

Q’s face pinched up even harder.

“Seriously, it’s like you’ve eaten a lemon. Quit.”

“I hate you,” Q hissed.

James nodded, “Join the club.” Q still scowled, tapping his fingers on the table. James smiled, “Eat your oatmeal, Q.”

Grudgingly, Q shoveled another spoonful into his mouth. “I’m bored.”

“So?”

Q shrugged. “Entertain me.”

James laughed. “And why would I do that?”

Q’s eyes narrowed. “My middle brother and I share one large trait. We both tend to get… _destructive_ when we’re bored.”

“Is that a threat?”

Q stayed silent, pursing his lips.

James sighed, “I think we might still have a couple board games in the cupboard upstairs… How does Cluedo sound?”

“No!” Q blurted, eyes wide.

James reared back, surprised by Q’s outburst. “Okay...”

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I have bad memories of that game. My brothers and I tried playing it once. My middle brother was convinced that the victim had done it.”

“Isn’t that against the rules or something?”

Q pinched the bridge of his nose. “We showed him the rule book.”

“And?”

“He said it was wrong.”

James snorted, and Q gave him a smile. They ate the rest of the meal silently, before James paused.

“What is it?” Q asked.

“Actually, I have something you might enjoy.” He set his bowl in the sink. “Follow me.”

James led Q through the house, before entering the adjoining garage. James walked to the centre, where there was a tarp covering a vehicle. He threw the tarp off, causing Q to cough slightly at the cloud of dust.

Q’s eyes widened at the sight before him. A sleek, black 1937 Bentley was parked, completely neglected.

“This was my grandfather’s,” James said.

“She’s beautiful,” Q breathed.

James nodded, “She is. But, she hasn’t run in over fifteen years. I’m not very good with cars, but I was thinking that maybe you’d like to take a look an-”

“Yes!” Q cried. “Yes, hell yes. Oh, it’s Christmas. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” James said, “I’m just trying to keep you from destroying my house.”

But Q was already lost, approaching the car timidly. James grabbed the keys off the wall and slid into the driver’s seat, popping the hood.

Q’s eyes were wide as he looked inside. “Mm… this part is rusted, while this here is… ah…” he spoke to himself quietly as he dug around inside. “James,” he called, “will you try to start her?”

“Sure.” He did, and Q gave a hum of agreement to a prior thought. 

“Hm, that’s what I thought. Do you have tools here?”

“Yes,” James pointed to the toolbox on the shelf in the far corner, and Q ran to get it. 

“Want to help?” he asked.

“Can I?” James seemed surprised.

“Sure. If you could just hold this, keep it to the right so it won’t crush my arm.”

They carried on like that for hours, conversing quietly to one another under the hood of the old Bentley. Q told James more about his brothers, while in return, James told Q what little he remembered of his parents.

“So your eldest brother,” James said, “he _actually_ kidnaps people?”

Q reached up to wipe sweat off his brow, leaving a trail of black grime streaked across. James resisted laughing. “Hm? Oh, yes. Mycroft never does anything halfway. The Detective Inspector at the Yard that Sherlock works with sometimes, Mycroft picked him up right off the street on his way to work. Told him that if he let anything happen to Sherlock, he’d disappear.”

“Goodness. Was Sherlock banned from the Yard?”

“Quite the opposite, actually. The DI and Sherlock get on pretty well, although Sherlock always complains that the police are helpless without him. And as for Lestrade - that’s the DI, by the way - well, he and Mycroft are together now.”

“Together?” James asked, “Like _together_ together?”

Q nodded. “And I suspect Sherlock and his flatmate will get together as well - if they haven’t already. It’s hard to tell with them. Sherlock always manages to find my bugs.”

James laughed.

By the time Q called it quits for the day, they both were feeling more refreshed than when they started (although they were both completely filthy).

Q sighed, “That was nice.”

“Cathartic, almost.”

“I agree,” Q smiled at James, before pushing him and sprinting down the hall. “Dibs on first shower!” he called over his shoulder.

“Twat,” James muttered under his breath. He sighed, looking around, and figured he might as well get some spring cleaning done while he was dirty, anyway. The kitchen was particularly nasty…

Thirty minutes later, Q walked out, a towel wrapped around his waist. He looked around, and frowned when he didn’t see James.

“James?” he called.

He made his way downstairs, and heard a clank from the kitchen. Curious, he peered inside. James’ body was contorted, halfway inside the stove, scrubbing away.

“James?” he asked again, and the blond jumped. His head knocked against the side of the oven, and Q winced sympathetically.

James stood, rubbing the back of his head, before realising that he probably just got himself more dirty. Oh well. He looked up at Q, pausing at what he saw. Q was shirtless, only a towel around his waist. He was slim and surprisingly toned, his wiry muscles apparent under the wide expanse of pale skin. 

James glanced up, suddenly noticing that Q was speaking. “What?” he asked, stupidly. 

Q gave him a smile. “I said the shower’s open.” He looked James up and down. “Gods, you need it. You look like something that crawled out of hell.”

He smiled wrily, “Thanks.” James stood, and began to make his way past Q when something on Q’s skin caught his eye. He paused.

Q, who saw where James’ eyes were looking, grimaced and tried to cover the large bruise with his hand. “It’s nothing.”

James frowned. “It doesn’t look like nothing.”

“Silva’s men just got a few good hits in, that’s all.”

“Q,” James started, but then paused. He eyed Q suspiciously. “How did you know his name?”

James saw Q flounder for an answer. “Tanner told me,” he lied, poorly.

“Q,” James disapproved.

Q sighed, “You think I don’t have bugs in my own home?”

James chuckled, “I don’t know why I thought otherwise. You get dressed, I’m going to go shower.”

* * *

To put it simply, James Bond showered without the shower curtain drawn. It was a force of habit, a trick that he had adopted in order to stay alive. It had saved his life at least twice, that he could remember. 

Honestly, he would rather have to clean the water that splashed out onto the floor than be caught unaware like some old American horror film.

Q didn’t know this, however, so when he crept into the bathroom, a pitcher of ice water in hand ready to pour over James’ head, he was met with the sight of a fit agent showering, and _not_ the floral curtain that he remembered.

At the sight of the door opening out of the corner of his eye, James turned, hands still threaded in his soapy hair. He blinked.

Q blinked back, his eyes wide behind his glasses. He sternly kept his eyes connected to James’ blue ones, refusing to look elsewhere.

They were both silent for a long while, before James nodded to the pitcher. “I don’t suppose that’s for me?”

“I-” Q voice broke, and he cleared it quickly, face flushing. “It might be. I was unaware that you… um, shower like this.”

James shrugged, and continued to rub the shampoo into his hair. He seemed perfectly at ease, while Q was a stammering mess. “It’s either this, or get offed because I can’t see it when someone tries to sneak into the bathroom.”

“Smart,” Q croaked out.

James stepped back into the water, closing his eyes and allowing the stream to rinse the suds out of his hair.

When he opened his eyes, he looked at Q, whose eyes snapped back to his face guiltily. Q turned bright red.

James raised a brow. “Are you going to stand there all day? I mean, if you like the view...”

Q glared, and splashed the cold water in James’ face, causing the older man to splutter. “Shit!”

Q took off, and by the time James had wiped the water out of his eyes, he was long gone.

* * *

Later, after James had shaved, he began his search for his Quartermaster. He wasn’t in the garage or his bedroom, and James peeked into every room and cupboard. He frowned. “Q?” he called.

There was no answer. James made his way outside, glancing around. “Q?” he yelled again, slightly worried.

“Up here,” Q called out, and James looked up to see Q on the roof, straddling one of the ridges.

“Q?! What the hell are you doing up there?”

“Bored!” he called back.

“Get down!”

Q, instead, stuck his tongue out and continued whatever it was he had been doing before James had come out.

“Q!” he shouted again.

James could see Q’s scathing glance. “Are you going to count backwards from ten?”

He rolled his eyes. “How did you even get up there?”

“By climbing. Obviously.”

“I thought you were afraid of heights.”

“I’m afraid of flying.” He rolled his eyes. “That’s completely different.”

“If you don’t come down, I’ll come up,” James threatened.

Q snorted, “I’m terrified.”

Grumbling under his breath, James stalked back inside. He found Q’s window open, and peeked out. The only thing that Q could have used was the gutter, and that wasn’t nearly strong enough to hold anyone’s weight.

“Q?” he called.

He heard Q’s voice call from above him, “Still waiting.”

“How did you get up there?”

“Your window, not mine. To the right of the window, there’s a chimney shaft you can scale.”

“Jesus.”

James eventually made it onto the roof, and carefully walked to where Q was perched. He refused to die falling from his own roof.

Q was hunched over, eyes completely focused on the shingles in front of him.

“What are you doing?” James asked, and grabbed the back of Q’s arms when the younger man started at the noise.

“Ah, so you finally made it. Meet Phil Coulson and Tony Stark.” He gestured to the small black things crawling in front of him. “I’m afraid I lost Steve Rodgers and Natasha Romanoff. Dr. Banner is around here somewhere as well…” Q looked around the roof, confused.

“Are those… woodlice?”

Q smiled. “Yes. The Armadillidium vulgare, more commonly known by its household nicknames, the pill bug, roly poly, or doodlebug. Incidentally, it’s one of the few types of bugs that don’t frighten me.”

“Right.” James shook his head. “And they were on the roof?”

“Certainly not.” Q’s voice suggested the answer should have been obvious. “I dug them up from out back.”

“And… _what,_ exactly, are you doing with them?”

Q looked up at him, smiling. “Racing them, of course. Tony is the fastest, by far.”

James sat down behind Q, peering over his shoulder. “How can you tell them apart?”

“Well, this one here has a-” Q touched the back of one with his finger, causing it to curl up defensively. Now in a ball, the small bug tumbled down the sharp slant of the roof, falling off over the edge.

“Oh,” Q said quietly. “Whoops.”

“That’s a shame,” James agreed.

They sat quietly for a few minutes; James soaking up the familiar smell of Scotland, Q mourning the loss of Coulson.

Finally, James broke the silence. “Do you have _any_ idea how we’re going to get down from here?”

“Not a clue.”

“Okay.”

* * *

****

Stage Four.

The Wall Stage begins when, eventually, the over-optimism of the Honeymoon Stage wears off. This is the time when most relapses occur due to the reemergence of feelings of anxiety and hopelessness. This is very similar to the Depression Stage of the Kübler-Ross model. While in this stage, it is recommended to have someone nearby to keep the addict out of harm’s way. If the addict wants to be alone, leave them be; but often times another person’s presence can help lift their spirits. This is normally the longest stage of withdrawal.

* * *

They eventually did make their way back inside, using the side of the chimney again to climb down.

“What do you want for dinner?” Q asked, heading to the kitchen.

James seemed surprised. “You cook?”

Q rolled his eyes. “Occasionally. I know how, anyways. I just usually don’t have time to make anything.”

“Oh. Well then, be my guest.”

Q hunted through the cabinet. “Hm, I can make us a simple stir fry.”

“Sounds good. I’m not that picky.”

“Alright,” Q nodded. “It should be ready in about half an hour. You go… polish your guns or something. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

James chuckled. “Alright.” He walked to the gun room, taking up Q’s suggestion of cleaning his father’s guns.

* * *

Half an hour turned into one, and one faded into two.

So lost in the smooth movements of disassembling and cleaning metal until it was shiny, James hardly noticed the passage of time.

Finally, he glanced up at the clock, eyes widening when he noticed that nearly two and a half hours had gone by. Surely it couldn’t have taken Q this long to make dinner, and James would have snapped out of his daze if he’d heard any threats.

Cautiously, James racked the remaining guns and walked down the hall to the kitchen. He paused outside the doorway, hearing a soft mechanical whirring and Q muttering to himself.

James peeked his head inside, eyes widening at the sight before him. 

Q was sitting on the counter, watching a small mechanical thing move in circles on the kitchen floor. He was frowning at it, completely absorbed in its movements.

“Q?” he called gently.

Q didn’t glance up, but softly said, “I hate you.”

James blinked at the sudden proclamation. “Okay. Can I know what I did?”

“You brought me here,” Q said simply, and hopped off the counter, kneeling on the floor. He stopped the machine, and started tinkering with its underside.

“You hate me because I _brought_ you here?” A smile hinted at James lips. He couldn’t help it, but it was just too hard to take Q seriously. “Because I’m keeping you safe from Silva?”

“I’m _bored,_ James! There’s nothing here; no phone, computer, or internet! I can’t even check my email - oh, gods, I’m going to have _so many_ emails when we get back. I’m going out of my mind!” The younger man suddenly glared at James, “And it’s _your_ fault!”

James chuckled, “Right, don’t blame the madman that tried to kidnap you, but your protector.”

Q ignored him, instead unscrewing a wheel from the robot.

The was silent for a few minutes, James watching Q work silently. Finally, he broke it, “Alright, I’ll bite. What are you making?”

“A robot to kill you with,” Q said pleasantly.

“Oh,” James nodded, “that’s nice.” He took a closer look. “Is that made from the toaster?” Good lord, what was Q’s problem with the toaster?

“Among other things.”

“Where did you get the material for the wheels?”

“One of them is made from a pizza cutter I found, while the other three are made from gears I found in the garage.”

“Ah.” James was eyeing the robot, amused.

“And do you know what else I found in the garage?”

“Hm?”

“Two sticks of dynamite,” Q said cheerfully.

James’ eyes snapped to Q’s, who was now smirking at him. “Q,” he warned. “I don’t think you should be messing with those.”

“Relax, James, I don’t intend to use them.”

James eyes narrowed, “Then where are they?”

“Hidden.”

James opened his mouth to respond, when a sudden array of small explosions lit up the room. The agent was immediately on top of Q, shielding him from the threat.

Q squirmed, “Ugh, get off. I can fix it.”

James still kept him down, while the small _pops!_ continued. “Fix what?” he growled.

“Let me up and I’ll show you!”

Reluctantly, James rolled off of Q, eyes scanning the room for threats. What he found was the microwave, lighting up with sparks from the inside. Q scooped up a plastic spatula, and quickly pressed the stop button with the handle. The door swung open, and the small strings of lightning stopped. 

“What the hell was that?” James peered inside the microwave. “Is that aluminium foil?”

“Yes,” Q said calmly, now grabbing a pair of tongs and lifting the foil. The little killing machine was still whirring away on the ground, moving around the kitchen.

“Why the fuck would you put it in the microwave? Don’t you know what it does?”

“Of course I do,” Q said. “Sherlock did this experiment when he was nine. He wouldn’t let me watch, and I wanted to see for myself.”

“You’re insane.”

Q looked at him, puzzled. “You’re just getting that now?”

James chuckled, and looked down when the robot butted against his leg. “So, how’s this thing supposed to kill me?”

“I haven’t attached the knife and gun yet. Oh! That reminds me, do we have a chainsaw?”

“No.”

Q scrutinised James’ face, before declaring, “You’re lying. Where is it?”

James glared at Q. “Where’s the dynamite?”

They scowled at one another for a few seconds, before Q sighed, “It seems we are at an impasse.”

“It appears so.”

Q pouted, and sat back down on the floor, continuing to tinker with the killer robot.

James looked around. “What happened to dinner?”

Q looked up. “What? Oh, that,” he waved his hand lazily, “tedious. It burned. I didn’t feel like trying again.”

James sighed, “How did you burn it?”

“It burned itself. I looked away for half a second, and - _poof!_ \- the whole pan was on fire.”

James snorted. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Q shook his head, “No, I ate this morning. Oh- Blast.” He shook his finger, hissing slightly.

“Did you just electrocute yourself?” James looked entirely too amused.

Q began to suck on his finger, “It happens more often than you might think.” He reached back for the machine, only for one of the wheels to pop off. Now off balance, the whole thing keeled over. It gave a pathetic mechanical whine.

Q stared at the thing for a few moments, and then flopped onto his back comically. He heaved a sigh. “It’s hopeless.”

James didn’t bother to hide his smile. “What is?”

Q gestured to the room with floppy arms. “This is. _Everything_ is. I’m going to die of boredom here.”

“That’s a tad dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Not at all. My brain might implode.”

“Q, I highly doubt-”

“James,” Q said suddenly, sitting up. His eyes were bright.

James blinked. “Yes?”

“How... attached are you to this house?”

James thought for a moment. “Not very. It’s more of a burden, I suppose. Kincade insists on watching over the house for free, but I can tell he’d rather be with his wife most of the time. There are a lot of… bad memories here.”

“Do you have anything of sentimental value in here?”

“Heavens, no. After my parents passed, everything ‘s either been sold or taken with me. Even my father’s guns aren’t worth much. The old Bentley in the garage might be the only thing actually worth anything. I always hated this place.”

Q hummed, now in thought again. 

“Why do you ask?”

“Hm, no reason. Curiosity.”

“Okay,” James got up. “Well, I’m making myself dinner, and then going to bed. Are you going to sleep?”

Q frowned, and waved his hand, “Course not. I slept last night. I hardly need it two nights in a row. Unless I’m working on one of your missions, however. Your knack for waiting until the last moment to save yourself always wears me out.”

James lifted a hand to his heart dramatically. “Q, I’m touched that you care so much.”

Q gave him the bird. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He chuckled, “Wouldn’t dream of it, Q.”

* * *

It wasn’t until later - much later - that James realised what Q had meant by his question.

James woke up to Q tapping on his shoulder frantically. He mumbled, “Go ‘way,” into his pillow.

“James? James I need you to wake up now.”

That got his attention. His eyes snapped open, fully awake. “What is it?”

“I think it might be best if we go now.” He tugged on James’ arm, urging him to get a move on.

“Why? What’s happened?”

“Up, now. Let’s go.”

James stood, quickly slipping into the shoes Q handed him. His Quartermaster had never led him astray before, so he had no reason not to trust him now. “Alright.”

“Good.” Q grabbed his hand and began to run, through the hall and down the grand staircase.

“Jesus, Q, what’s the rush?”

Q huffed, still making them run like bats out of hell. “I may or may not have lit the sticks of dynamite and placed them on some propane tanks.”

“You what?!” Q threw open the door, and they sprinted into the yard. “You’re going to get us killed!”

“I planned accordingly. The fuse should be long enough for us to-”

A large blast shook the ground, and for the second time, James dove on top of Q. Q grimaced at the noise of the blast, but looked very pleased with himself. They had been far enough away to stay unharmed by the explosion; only a small layer of brick dust had touched them. 

James rolled off of Q, still keeping the younger man in his arms just in case. His eyes widened when he saw the state of his home. The windows were completely gone, and the whole thing seemed to be glowing orange from the fire inside it.

“Q,” James said slowly. “Did you just blow up my house?”

Q, who was originally grinning, now looked at James nervously. “I, um, well...”

James suddenly grinned crookedly. “Is this your way of asking me on a date, then? By exploding my house for me?”

Q went pink around his ears. “I-I saved the Bentley for you. It and your Aston are parked a few miles south.”

“You’re incredible,” James laughed. He leaned down and placed a soft kiss on Q’s soft lips. “My answer is yes, Q. Let me take you to dinner when we get back?” Q nodded. James grinned and swooped down for another kiss, this one more thorough.

When they finally parted, Q looked dazed. “You know, I think I’ve found a new hobby,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t need technology after all. Maybe I’ll just go around obliviating people’s homes.”

James hummed, “As long as I can help.”

Q smiled sweetly, “I wouldn’t dream of doing it without you.”

The blond chuckled, but was stopped from kissing the man beside him by a surprised voice. “Woah. Keep it PG, ladies.”

James looked up, glaring at Alec. “You always had shit timing, Trevelyan.”

Alec shrugged, “You’re the one getting it on outside in the moonlight.” He grinned and waved cheerfully at the body beneath James’. “Hello, Quartermaster.”

Q covered his face with his hand. “006. I should kill you.”

“Aw, you love me too much to kill me.” He ignored Q’s mutter of _’want to bet?’_ “By the way, what the fuck happened there?” he nodded to the house.

James snorted, “Q got bored.”

“I see,” Alec laughed. “Well, M sent me to fetch you both.”

James stood, hauling Q up with him. “Has Silva been taken care of?”

Alec grinned. “Of course. I managed to track him down to an abandoned island off the coast of Macau. Fucker had a whole room full of computer servers.”

James nodded. “Probably why he wanted Q. Did you bring him in?”

“No. I’m sorry to say that he ended up with a bullet in his head before I managed to send the distress signal.”

“I’m sure you are,” Q snorted.

Alec rolled his eyes. “Ready to come home?”

“Gods, yes. I need to make sure the minions haven’t taken over the nation in my absence.”

James slung an arm around the younger man’s shoulders. “And _I_ need to collect on that bet of ours.”

Q groaned.

* * *

****

Stage Five.

Adjustment and Resolution Stage: The final stage is when the addict learns to cope with living without their substance/item and that change is a lifelong struggle. Often compared to the Acceptance Stage of the Kübler-Ross model, the final Stage of Withdrawal comes at different times to different people. Occasionally, an addict might lapse back into one of the previous stages (often Stage Four), but will eventually find their way back into Acceptance.

* * *

Bond glanced at his watch. Q should be out any minute. It was time to collect on the bet.

Eve stood next to him, grinning. “The usual stakes, then?” she asked. 

Bond nodded. “You have your camera?”

Eve snorted. “I would never miss this opportunity.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m sure there’ll be plenty more. He’s a stubborn one.”

Eve nudged him with her elbow. “I’m just waiting until the day where it’s _you_ who loses.”

“Never going to happen, Miss Moneypenny,” Bond winked at her. 

“Well, what era is it this time?” she asked.

“He had the choice between Victorian style and modern. He chose Victorian.”

“Of course. It’s more flamboyant.”

Bond winked. “And he gets to hold a sceptre.”

He turned to the rest of the Q-Branch minions, who were all waiting eagerly with their phones ready. Bond thought he saw one bringing in a professional photographer. “Everyone ready?” he called.

There was a collective cheer of agreement from the crowd, and Bond grinned. “Alright, come on out, Q.”

Slowly, the double doors leading into Q’s office opened, and Q himself strode out - completely decked out like a Victorian Era queen. He was wearing silk gloves that went to his elbows, and stockings with heels. The dress was the best part, however, with it’s corset drawing his waist in and petticoat making his hips flare out. He held in his hand a long sceptre and wore a crown on top of his mop of hair.

There were wolf whistles and laughs as he walked out, somehow managing to be completely graceful in his tall heels.

“Everyone line up for pictures!” someone called, and each of the boffins scrambled to pose with their genius of a leader.

Q’s head was held high as he looked down on the workers of Q-branch. “Fuck you all,” he announced. “but I look _hot._ ”


End file.
